


in-ert

by aortamint



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aortamint/pseuds/aortamint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps Sherlock could’ve developed his own feelings for John, in time. If he were freer.</p><p>But such a natural thing couldn’t happen because Sherlock didn’t <i>allow</i> for things to simply <i>happen</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finished, alternating somewhat between John's POV and Sherlock's POV. Sort of minimalist.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prelude.

It developed slowly, unnoticed by John. Like the growth of hair. Or the thawing of snow. Natural, time-powered processes.

Once--  
he was content in his skin, nursing cups of tea milky white and typing blog updates with an air of inexorability. Life was expanding around him. Sherlock had catalyzed his existence. Things happened again.

Then--  
he was breaking Sherlock’s gaze. Following his jaw line. Feeling almost dizzy with affection.

It wasn’t that he felt like _doing_ anything about it. [Yet.] He was content to admire.

Admittedly, John spent half his time positively mad with annoyance. In disbelief of Sherlock's dissonance. But he knew that this was a game of give-and-take.

Take: John loved Sherlock’s deductions. His grace. Quickfire elocution. (His hair.)

Give: John absolutely loathed Sherlock's tendency to scorn and abstain from all traces of sentiment. His insistence on stoniness. Arrogance. Self-abuse.

John supposed his overall happiness came from the reemergence of his own emotions. But it was clear that these positive emotions had negative parts within them. And so he came to view this struggle as a part of his rejuvenated life.

Yes, things had started to happen again. Yes, he had feelings for a man who was more likely to eat his own hat than engage in acts of affection. It was fine.

John could cope.

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

Perhaps Sherlock could’ve developed his own feelings for John, in time. If he were freer. But such a natural thing couldn’t happen because Sherlock didn’t _allow_ for things to simply  _happen_.

Others, they interacted with their environment. Conversed with people. Feelings developed gradually, without notice, until they reached a critical concentration that precipitated a reaction. Normal people realized the presence of emotion with a rush of clarity, and either acted upon it or let it fall to the wayside. 

Sherlock lived in a vacuum, where his mind had certain points of contact with the outside world, metallic conduits that processed valuable information and nothing more. No frivolous daydreams, no imaginings, and absolutely no _romantic inclinations._

 

Though he was a catalyst himself, Sherlock remained startlingly inert.

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boredom + case = case
> 
> (No one understands this sort of mathematics of love and loss except for Sherlock.)

_Steady rhythm of pressed keys—tedious._

No.  _Torturous_.

No— _tyrannical_. [beat]  _No, that’s not it at all._

[sigh]

 _This is what it has come to_. [Sherlock inclines his head at a more dramatic angle.]  _Mental alliterative description of John’s dreadful typing._ [His hands, pressed to his lips, increase their pressure.]  _If left unaltered, its monotony could rot my brain._

He mentally wills the sound to evaporate. This fails to accomplish anything whatsoever. A few more seconds consume the remains of Sherlock’s meager patience. “Could you quit murdering your keyboard?” Sharp; the sonic equivalent of a knife.

“No,” replies John. His eyes shift to watch Sherlock dramatically raise his upper body and flop back against the sofa in yet another sprawling position. John has the audacity to appear amused.

“It’s been  _ages_ since I solved the case of the Blundering Idiot, I thought you would’ve finished typing it up already. I clearly forgot that you move about at the pace of a drunken  _snail_.”

A crease appears in John’s forehead. An  _amused_  crease. “Sherlock, you finished the case  _this morning._ ” A pause. “And that  _serial murderer_  was far from a blundering idiot.” 

Sherlock widens his eyes in an expression of annoyance. “As I said:  _ages_.”

John shakes his head and resumes typing. Any further expressions of annoyance are forestalled by the buzzing of Sherlock’s phone.  _Lestrade._

“Hand me that, will you?” A single hand stretches out over the coffee table, toward John, toward diversion.  _Anything but this tedium._

“Ah, you’ll have to get it,” John sighs, stretching. “I’m a bit of a drunken snail at the moment.”

Sherlock glares. This precipitates a faint curving of John’s lips.

 

It is only the insistent  _tip-tip-tip_  of John’s fingers that forces Sherlock to his feet.

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

A case. Homicide. Rather important official. No obvious sign of death, but definite foul play (according to the family).

Sherlock couldn’t care less. He also couldn’t “be arsed to travel to bleeding  _Chelmsford_  for anything less than a 7.” 

Which is why Lestrade lies.

 

 

> _Are you sure this is worth it? SH._
> 
> _Definitely. A 7 at least. – DI Lestrade_

Sherlock’s a bit miffed when they arrive at a lazily sprawling manor to find a crime scene that would consider itself blessed to be considered a 5.

John’s a bit miffed when Sherlock books a single at the hotel.

“Sherlock,” sighs John as he drops his duffel just inside the door. He sounds resigned. “There’s only one bed.”

Sherlock brushes past John and gives the room a perfunctory scan. “We’re not  _living_  here John, we’ll only be spending the night. The bed’s large enough for two.”

There is a moment where John hesitates. To share a bed with Sherlock—to _sleep_ with Sherlock—no matter how innocent Sherlock’s intentions...the mere _idea_ sends a flutter down his flatmate’s spine. 

John feels like he’s telling a lie as he climbs beneath the covers.

Sherlock attributes John’s reluctance to traditional male friendship patterns. He stifles a scoff. _Tiresome_   _conventions_.

And yet. Sherlock’s manner of contempt slips from his shoulders as John turns in. Not a soul witnesses the conversion. But his eyes soften, his stature shrinks a bit, his face appears kinder. His concentration sharpens, however. He stays up until 3:22 a.m. reading a poorly-edited article that nevertheless contains valuble information on the effects of guilt on sleeping patterns. (Apparently, some inferences can be drawn from the spread of eye circles.)

Sherlock softly traces his own purpling eye circles. His gaze falls upon the curve of John’s shoulder on the bed. He decides to join him.

 

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catalysis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of internal Sherlockian monologue, a moment from John, and the immediate aftermath.

_John, asleep. Sprawled across the middle of the mattress._

_Habit.  
Hasn’t shared his bed in a while._

[He moves to shift the sheets.]

_Is sleep really necessary anyway?_

[A frown.]

_Have been conscious for 43 hours though. Not – ideal._

_His face is slack. He’ll wake if I move him._

_Ignore concern._

_I shift him to the right. The bed squeaks. I like the sound._

_Settled. It’s rather nice, this warmth of the recently vacated spot._ [A faint smile.] _I also rather like having John close to me. Readily accessible in case I need tea during the night. Wait, that doesn’t make sens—_ [Sherlock freezes] _– an arm—_ John’s arm _—softly curling around my shoulder._ [The softness of sleep makes the movement wobbly and inaccurate.]

[pause]

[another pause]

_Awkward. John would think this awkward if he were conscious. Is he conscious—?_

_Carefully glance at his face – it’s turned toward me now. Still slack, peaceful. He shifts over to press against me._ [The expression on Sherlock’s face is that of an extremely bewildered man.]

_Logically seeking a heat source?  
Old habit of – snuggling. Detesta– oh –_

_his_ leg _is shifting over_ my legs [Sherlock’s eyelids flutter shut.]

_similar in fashion to the curling of his arm around my upper body, a sort of clinging action_

[John sighs in sleep.]

_soft_

_should i_

_it’s rather warm_

_i cannot move without waking him_

_his_ hand _my_ hair _am I—oh_

_  
_[John slowly shifts back, taking his warmth with him.]

_well._

[Thunderous heartbeat.]

_Breathing. Thinking. Alright. Interesting. A bit—odd._

[Sherlock lays flat on his back.] _Will have to – address this in the morning. Unacceptable._

[His breathing gradually slows.]

[He turns to peer at John for a moment. An involuntary decision that is summarily overridden as Sherlock rolls over to face the wall.]

_Sleep-_

 

[He falls asleep soundly. Uncommon.]

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

This is John’s favorite time of day. Drinking tea as Sherlock sleeps. Doesn’t happen that often, as sleep isn’t one of Sherlock’s favorite things.

Not that he prefers an unconscious Sherlock—it’s simply nice to look at Sherlock with unbridled affection. Emotion free of unwanted analysis.

Sherlock is turned on his side, an arm curled under his head, facing the center of the bed. His face is relaxed—slack. Looks normal.

His hair looks soft. Touchable, even.

John imagines its texture.

 

It wouldn’t do to wake Sherlock like that, having him spring to all sorts of conclusions regarding John’s motivations. _Or_ _maybe_ —John wonders— _maybe_ _he’d deduce correctly_. How John loves him, simply. How he whole-heartedly respects Sherlock’s decision to refrain from engaging in relationships. This decision doesn’t stop John from caring deeply about Sherlock.

In fact, sometimes [especially when drunk], John is fond of entertaining the rather traitorous thought that John could care for Sherlock much better if they were more emotionally involved. (John regards the idea as ‘traitorous’ because Sherlock obviously prides himself on his independence.)

There are times when John reasons that if anyone were to make a first move, it would have to be himself. To initiate a higher level of intimacy would be to admit a _need_. And Sherlock—well—neediness was abhorrent to Sherlock. Pathetic. Weak. 

John has no qualms, however, at admitting certain things. Revealing vulnerabilities.

(There is also the matter of whether or not Sherlock would reciprocate, but that was beyond speculation.)

At this point, however, John is content to respect Sherlock’s boundaries.

 

[When conscious, at least.]

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

When Sherlock wakes, he keeps his eyes closed for a moment. 

A mental sigh escapes him. _Time_ _to confront John about the – the ‘snuggle’ incident._

John will be affronted, embarrassed—even distant. _Tedious._

[If you listen hard enough, you can hear the careful (timid?) timbre of Sherlock’s thoughts.]

 

He opens his eyes to find John watching him, nestled in a rather drab reading chair. The rumpled folds of the comforter, the late morning light from the window, the ugly pattern of the curtains—all details pale when Sherlock detects an unidentifiable emotion in John’s eyes.

 

There is _depth_ there. 

It’s strange.

Sherlock wants to fall headlong into whatever it is. He wants to puzzle over it. Wants it to _confound_ him, to occupy his thoughts until he can barely speak, until its name settles on the tip of his tongue. (He would keep it there, unspoken, until the time was right.) He wants to examine the colour of it, to weigh it.

But then John shifts a bit. Blinks. Raises his mug and gestures.

“You’ve overslept,” he says softly.

 

And Sherlock can’t see it anymore. Which is impossible.

John can’t _hide_ things from him. He’s a _book_.

The emotion is simply _gone_. ( _Or nonexistent._ )

The damage is done, at any rate. Sherlock’s resolve is paralyzed. The assault of _want_ comes and goes without explanation. He finds himself, for once, unable to ask what is on his mind. Sherlock is silent.

 

 _Preposterous_.

 

And yet this is how it happens, as if Sherlock is underwater. John stands, prattling some trite nonsense about the case, loose-ends. 

Sherlock cannot hear, does not respond. He is shocked at his reticence. Inability. (Impotence?)

 

Pathetic. _Preposterous_. Tedious.

 

He brushes the incident from his mind like snow from his collar. His hands burn in remembrance of the cold.

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins.

_Shower. Breakfast. Taxi. Manor. Concealed bloodstains beneath rug, no visible wounds on victim. Another body probably involved. But where?_

Sherlock asks John for a medical analysis while keeping his eyes focused carefully downward. John fails to notice.

Despite the long cab ride over, Sherlock still hasn’t mentioned the instance of unconscious affection from the night before, the gesture of emotion that didn’t mean anything because John would’ve done it to whoever crawled into bed with him. 

His reluctance tastes of lemons.

John finds traces of disinfectant on the victim’s fingertips. All Sherlock can do is hum in acknowledgment and turn away, his coat seeming more like a costume than protection from the cold.

Sherlock is ashamed at what he identifies as  _cowardice_.

Inert. Sherlock has always been been  ~~lacking in~~  free from sentimental restraints. This was good. This was efficient.

And now, one pair of deep blue eyes has converted that  _inertness_  into  _inertia_.

_Stupid. This reaction is utterly stupid._

Sherlock feels transformed. All aspects of his inquisitive nature are now directed toward this undersized, overcautious man. He does not care about the murdered man lying on the hardwood floor of the Chelmsford manor. He feels no itch to determine the identity of the criminal. All he needs to know is  _what that damn look was about_.

It is glorious.

 

[Debilitatingly so.]

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

After the crime scene investigation featuring an abnormally curt Sherlock, John insists upon a lunch/dinner break at the local pub. Sherlock (of course) does not order. John simply hopes he’ll steal one or two of his chips, as soon as they arrive.

As John peers out the pub window, Sherlock glances over at him. Pale hair.  _Unbrushed this morning. Relatively well-rested, though. Thinking about getting back to Baker Street. Believes the victim was abusive toward a family member, and was killed in backlash. (Interesting.) Seems to be content. (Where is that damn emotion?) Wearing the same jeans for three days—_

“Quit deducing me. I thought we’d agreed on this.” John’s voice breaks Sherlock’s rhythm. Cheeky grin.

Sherlock folds his hands below his chin. “John. Let us brainstorm a list of emotions.”

John’s forehead crinkles as his eyebrows migrate north. “That’s a new one, eh? Emotions. Is this for the case?” Wiggles his eyebrows. “Motivation?”

He refuses to smile. “So far I can think of happiness, sadness, anger, boredom, venom, annoyance, murderous intent—”

John giggles.

“What?”

“Nothing,” says John, “it’s just…” He makes an odd clicking noise with his tongue. “That quickly devolved into a self-description.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together. “Why don’t you name some then?”

John’s food arrives, and Sherlock’s feet shift audibly as he waits for him to settle.

“Well,” John begins, around a mouthful of chips, “there’s excitement. Love. Affection. Hatred. Sadness—”

“Said that already.” Sherlock manages to snatch John’s biscuit in a thoughtful manner. “Was that a self-description?”

“Suppose so.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and John feels a buzzing at the base of his skull. “Is this still for the case?”

“What does affection look like, exactly?”

The buzzing hums louder. “Sherlock I’m _pretty_ sure the official didn’t die in an outburst of unbridled affection.”

Sherlock stares at John a beat too long and then inhales sharply. “True. We’ll have to interview the widow.” He steals two chips from John’s plate to distract him. It works. 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

Within the first minute of the interview, Sherlock is certain of the killer’s identity. There is no second body. The case could be wrapped up within the hour. But--there's John. Sitting patiently beside him. John, who is deliberately concealing something. It’s infuriating.

So Sherlock holds his tongue. Which is not easy, considering the caliber of human Sherlock is currently surrounded by. _The wife was clearly cheating on her husband. The husband knew. They’re also cheating on their taxes. Daughter is sexually abused. Faked grief everywhere._ But Sherlock _needs to know._ He needs to know, damnit,  _everything_ about John.

 

_Now._

 

The Wikipedia article on emotion is abysmally deficient. Complete with a ridiculous rainbow-coloured wheel graphic that seeks to ease the common reader’s understanding. Horrifying, really. But there is some worth in the article. Sherlock determines that the most valid approach entertains the idea of “two classes of emotion:” “classical” emotions and “homeostatic” or “primordial” emotions.

The – that _thing_ that Sherlock saw in John’s eyes was not primordial by any means. Primordial emotions, according to this approach, include “pain, hunger, and fatigue,” and they motivate the body to remain “at its ideal state.” [Sherlock scoffs. Never before has he caved to the influences of pain, hunger, or fatigue, and he considers his body _quite_ ideal.]

This leaves the classical emotions: “love, anger, and fear.” These are ”evoked by environmental stimuli via distance receptors in the eyes, nose and ears.” Which sounds remotely scientific to Sherlock. He approves.

Clearly, they had to remain in Chelmsford. The only way to repeat the experiment was to have John in the same room as him, with the same exact conditions. Otherwise, Sherlock would never see those blue eyes tinged with [whatever it was] again.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, I'm not making this [emotion stuff](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emotion) up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beauty of mistaken confidence.

Something odd is going on. 

John isn’t certain _what_ , nor _why_ , but he _knows_. He can _sense_ it.

Plus, there are several clues.

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

After throwing his jacket down, John stretches and sighs. “Well, I’m knackered. Think I’ll shower before tucking in.” 

“We’re not _living_ here John,” comes Sherlock’s voice from behind him, “we’ll only be spending the night. The bed’s large enough for two.”

The sentence sounds familiar to John, but he brushes away the sense of déjà vu. His eyes flick between the bed and Sherlock. “I…okay, yes, I know that. But just because we’re not living here doesn’t mean I can’t shower.” He heads for the bathroom—kicking off his shoes as he goes—and registers a soft whooshing noise. A dark blur passes before him, and then Sherlock flattens himself against the bathroom door, as if guarding it. His eyes are sharp. 

“John, you _can’t_ take a shower.” _You went straight to bed last night._

There’s a short silence as John and Sherlock eye each other. John: warily. Sherlock: fiercely.

“Sherlock…” John sounds cautious. Confused. “What the hell?”

[Sherlock mentally slaps himself.] _Of course he’s confused, I’m being a tad obvious. R-e-l-a-x._ He takes a step to the right of the door, nonchalantly _._ “I mean,” Sherlock clears his throat, dropping his voice to a lower register. “John, you don’t really _need_ a shower.”

“Sherlock, I really don’t think you have a say in the matter.”

“I have a say in all important matters.”

John watches Sherlock with narrowed eyes as he slinks [nonchalantly] over to the bed.

“Just go to bed,” Sherlock says carelessly. “You’re an idiot if you think you need to bathe yourself. You’re fine.”

 

There’s a short silence in which Sherlock deduces John’s next move, but he is too late to intervene. John makes a break for it.

 

There are two crashes: one of John slamming the bathroom door behind himself, one of Sherlock crashing into it.

Several clicks follow: one of John locking the door, the rest of Sherlock jiggling the door handle.

 

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock punches the door.

They both listen for a moment to the sound of each other’s breathing.

“What the _hell_ are you playing at Sherlock?” [John’s voice sounds different through the door. Sherlock surmises this is due to his inability to see him.]

“You’re not su _ppos_ —what are _you_ playing at, John? Locking the bathroom door?” Sherlock is practically hissing. _The plan! What happened to the PLAN?_

A manic giggle from John. “I’ve _locked the door_ because _you_ seem _hell-bent_ on controlling my plans to shower! And now I can hear you _pacing_ , this is unbelievable.”

John runs a hand through his hair. “You know what? No. I’m not going to worry about this, I’m just—”

Sherlock comes close to the door. “John. _Please_.”

“No.”

The shower turns on.

[This was _not_ what was supposed to happen. John was _supposed_ to go right to bed, as per the experiment. Sherlock had even said the same exact words he’d said yesterday! After all, there had to be _some_ sort of control. Some sense of repetition. Otherwise John wouldn’t—wouldn’t _do_ the _thing._ With his eyes.] Sherlock lays his forehead against the locked door. “John, I—”

He pauses as John begins to hum merrily.

It is then that Sherlock has a moment. Despite his annoyance at being foiled, despite the tedium of a _shower_ , despite the fact that John _outwitted Sherlock_ , he feels like laughing.

So he does. Laughs softly to himself. Against the door he leans, dark and alone.

It’s no matter. The experiment can still be salvaged. With a bit of luck, John will be asleep within the hour, and then Sherlock will only have to wait until morning to _know._

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

The sad thing is, John feels limp with hilarity over the whole matter. There is a moment in the shower when he grins like a loon at the showerhead. The showerhead grins back, by way of distorted reflection.

He thinks to himself that this is what he loves about life lately, this ridiculous messed-up way Sherlock has of doing things. It’s unexpected. Weird? A bit, yeah. But he doesn’t really want normal, because nothing happens with normal. One becomes unaware of oneself with _normal_.

 _God, I sound just like Sherlock, don’t I?_ John freezes with his hands in his hair, shampoo in his eyes. It smarts. His hands slowly begin to move again.

_Good._

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

The bedroom is completely dark when John finally emerges from his shower. [Warily.] The clean pane of light from the doorway slowly widens until John can see Sherlock, lying on top of the bedcovers, feet crossed. Unreadable eyes are trained on him.

“You going to tell me what that was all about then?” John throws his clothes down on his duffel and snags the remote on the way to the bed. “Or are you going to remain a twelve year old for the rest of the night?” Sherlock groans as the TV flicks on.

“No, John, _please_ , no TV. Just go to sleep.”

“Sherlock, do you _really_ think I am just going to do whatever you tell me to?” The bed squeaks as John settles next to Sherlock. He’s enjoying this. It feels—[John freezes as the word _domestic_ casually floats in on a cloud of contentment].

The cloud vanishes as Sherlock emits an irritatingly loud groan. John raises the volume.

The next hour has John determinedly watching increasingly mind-numbing late night television, while Sherlock expresses his annoyance in increasingly creative ways. Slowly, however, Sherlock’s wordless bits of annoyance decrease in frequency and vehemency, as his lean body slowly levels out. His head is dangerously close to John’s elbow.

At around two in the morning, John notices an eerie even quality to Sherlock’s breathing. His eyes dart to Sherlock’s face.

Unbelievably, Sherlock has fallen asleep. Positioned like a child. Curled ever-so-slightly in John’s direction. As John watches, Sherlock’s hand falls slightly open. Inviting.

John aggressively powers off the TV and turns on his side. Away from Sherlock.

It would never work, anyway. Anything between them. _He’s too temperamental._ John shares a sad smile with the wall. _Just the way I like him._

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

Suddenly conscious. (Hypnagogia’s a bore, so he’s trained himself to ignore that space between sleep and consciousness that everyone’s always blathering on about.) Feels warmth, near his left hand.

Mentally curses. He has fallen asleep. On a case! (That’s what kills him about it. He can't fathom how this could have happened. He doesn't simply _allow_ himself to  _fall_ asleep. He determines when sleep is absolutely necessary and then  _allots_ himself sleep. There is a  _schedule_. There must have been something...some sort of influence. He'd relaxed too much. Somehow.) He sighs. Sits up, careful not to disturb the subject of his nearly-failed experiment. Checks alarm clock.

_7:02 a.m. Just over an hour until John awakes._

He dislikes the texture of these sheets.

_To return to sleep is boring._

He carefully monitors John’s breathing. One R.E.M. cycle passes. At one point, he takes John’s pulse. [Stops upon realizing how much he likes its rhythm.]

When finally John stirs, Sherlock is prepared. All he needs to do is feign sleep, and wait until John is appropriately situated for data collection.

 

[Ah, the beauty of mistaken confidence.]

 

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gravity persists, it seems, even in Sherlock Holmes' brain.

When John opens his eyes, Sherlock fails to close his own. A second passes.

Though Sherlock feigns sleep immediately, John catches on uncannily well.

"Sherlock?" His voice is different. Morning-filled. It sounds like truth. Sherlock holds his breath.  
  
"Look, Sherlock...you want to tell me what's up here?" He pauses. Sherlock exhales in a plausibly unconscious manner, and John sighs, extending his breath so long that Sherlock quickly computes the volume capacity of his lungs in wonder. "You've acted weird all day--a bit too silent, a bit too strange." He pauses. "I wanted to let you know you can talk with me. Of course...of course, you know that." 

 

The next pause is longer.

 

"I know you're awake."

Soft breathing noises fill the space between them.

A faint lowering of tone: "I can't do this anymore." Sherlock knows he's supposed to be asleep during this part, so he carefully maintains his state of slack insensibility.

 

He hears John shift over on his side. He cautiously opens his eyes and looks at the line of John's profile, turned away from Sherlock, faintly visible. Slightly defensive.

Sherlock's arms - he feels like they're buzzing. It's unnatural to let them lay like this, curled in front of him. [He reaches out--he grasps John's shoulder.]

[Of course he doesn't. He'd be a fool if he did.] Sherlock lets gravity pin his limbs to sheets, where they feel empty.

 

He still hasn't solved this stupid infinitesimally unimportant mystery.

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

Gravity persists, it seems, even in Sherlock Holmes' brain. The next morning, over cold continental breakfast, John mentions Sherlock's bizarre actions in passing. Sherlock brushes it off. He solves the case (John was right about the abuse). They return to Baker Street without incident. And yet despite all this indifference and normalcy and  _boredom_ , it persists: this feeling.

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

Three days pass. He finds a digital representation of a tree. A chart of emotions. Six primary areas:

 

 

> LOVE
> 
> JOY
> 
> SURPRISE
> 
> ANGER
> 
> SADNESS
> 
> FEAR

 

The last three are ludicrously unfit for further analysis. They’re clearly wrong. John had looked positive.

Sherlock glances up at the ceiling in reflection. Love Joy Surprise. Surpriselovejoy.

These require further thought. [Sherlock tries not to think about the effort he’s putting into _emotions_. We all know what a failure not-thinking is.  _Why. Why am I--no._ ]

Surprise as a primary emotion doesn’t really break down into anything resembling what Sherlock is after (amazement, astonishment--wrong, _wrong, WRONG),_ so he also rules that out.

Love. No. [A little noise is stifled in the vicinity of Sherlock's midbrain.]

  
Joy--joy? 

 

Sherlock imagines joy is what he feels after a case. What he feels when he's beautifully unconscious and his brain is freed from the surface of this dreadful planet. What he feels when he's incandescent. To be quite honest, he's not entirely certain any other human being could feel this way, could feel this helium mixing with the carbon and nitrogen and oxygen and all the other atoms of himself.

But if there were one person who could attain that level, it would be John. Probably. It wouldn't be a brilliant flare of joy like Sherlock's. It'd be a steady burn. A dying fire. No--a warming tea kettle. [That's unbearably kitsch.] A recently unplugged electric blanket--?

John enters the room. The rush of noise is surprisingly pleasant-sounding to Sherlock's ears.

[Eyebrow raise.] "I thought you were out?" Sherlock asks.

"Nope. It's a night in for me. I still haven't recovered from our little marathon on Tuesday." John shoots a rueful grin toward Sherlock. [His midbrain would thrum, if it had nerve endings.]

"Are you happy, John?"

This earns Sherlock a head tilt. "Happy? Well...yes. Yes, I am." John seems surprised by his own answer. His eyes are wide. Honest. Honest-to-God deep blue. Sherlock mentally berates himself _\--happy_ isn't clear enough.

"Overjoyed?"

"I wouldn't go that far." John chuckles a bit as he falls onto the sofa and toes off his shoes.

Sherlock watches the wriggle of his toes as he chews this over.

"So you don't...you're not feeling joy. At this moment. Or were not feeling that in recent memory."

John makes some sort of incredulous response but Sherlock has already tuned him out. His atoms are thrumming. _Love?_ No. One of the secondary emotions associated with it, probably. Affection? Fondness. Caring. All these things Sherlock  _knew_ John felt. He knew this already. This was a waste of time.

A complete waste.

Completely.

_Then why are there pins and needles in my arms?_

Sherlock retrieves his laptop and google-searches 'love.' The results nearly cause him to vomit. "This is unbearable!"

"Sherlock, are you ok?" Sherlock glances up at John. The television's been turned on, but John clearly hasn't been watching it. He has silently witnessed Sherlock's agitation. Clearly, Sherlock said that last thought aloud. There's nothing for it.

"John, I have to ask you a question."

 

 *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes tries and fails to create clarity, for once.

_What parts of yourself are you hiding from me?_

_Why are you hiding them?_

_Why am I so desperate to hunt them down?_

_Can I kiss you, just to see what you'll do?_

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_

These potential questions and more swirl in the wine glass of Sherlock's mind without any sort of logic or reason to corral them. It's downright _human_.

Barely three seconds pass and yet, within them, John's expression slowly morphs to something wonderful. Welcoming without being coddling. Tender without being normal. John-like. _Of course John must be a little confused by my preamble, I hardly ever preface a question with a warning. And yet look at him._ As if nothing Sherlock could ask would put him off.

So many alternatives. Possibilities. Problems. So many ways to go about asking. 

Sherlock doesn't have a particular question so much as a general feeling, a sort of pull or push. A force. Sort of like magnetism or plate tectonics or nuclear fusion...or any of those curious scientific phenomena that, at one time in history, made absolute no sense at all because the men and women investigating didn't have all the facts.

Sherlock feels helpless. A little boneless too. He clenches his fists a little as they hover at his sides, affirming the existence of bone and sinew. He's standing and staring at John and not asking anything.

"Sherlock? You in there?"

He feels like he's 13 again. [Grotesque age.] Old enough to realize how much he doesn't know.

"John."

Cautious lips and tongue. "Yeah."

"John, I need help with. Uh. A thing." Sherlock touches his face with his left hand, as if wiping away a dark smudge, obscuring his left eye a little.

John's dusty eyebrows twitch a bit, like wings resettling. "You're kidding me. Are you...shamming at being vulnerable or something?" He steps a bit closer, which feels right, and lowers his voice. "Did you blow something up?"

Sherlock ignores that and closes his eyes. _Distance. I need distance, not proximity._

His feet stutter a bit forward. "I regret this admission but I must say that I don't quite understand the difference between love and joy and what comes between and what goes beyond those qualifiers, and it's rather essential that I do understand, right away, or else I might just murder someone." It's not quite what Sherlock wanted to say. But it is not in his character to speak from the heart.

There's the whisper of John's shirt sleeves moving over skin as he changes his center of gravity. Sherlock senses that he's rocking forwards a bit on the balls of his feet. There's an explosive exhale. Sherlock expects a serious and/or irritating qualification.

"Well!" John begins, in a tone that indicates he's smiling. _Does he have any sense of gravity at all?_ "Never thought my 'sentimental' tendencies would come in handy." A self-disparaging laugh. "Um. Well, you see, love and joy are not really aimed at the same thing. Joy is this sort of nebulous...blanket feeling that you get when something just peachy happens." 

He pauses, and Sherlock opens his eyes. John is standing at parade rest with his chin up, almost looking at the ceiling. His attention is more aimed at the air in between his nose and the plaster above. His eyelids flutter a precious amount as his eyes flick to Sherlock's face. "I would say you're about as joyful as ever when you get a triple murder, or a locked-room mystery, or whatever. It's...it's Christmas. For you." 

_This is going nowhere. This isn't--_

"Love though..." John breathes out through his nose, and his gaze sinks to the floor. Sherlock wants to lie down again. In the same bed. The hotel bed. Or maybe on the floor, so John is looking at _him_. "I don't have much experience, but I know that it's something pure, and real, and worth it. I don't think I can properly describe though what it's about. I--I think you'd know it if you saw it. Or felt it."

John keeps twittering on like that, so bland, so blind. Even as Sherlock watches his blue eyes shift over Sherlock's face. Even as Sherlock sees the obvious. _I'm an idiot._ John--he stands there, ever so steady, acting nonchalant, explaining emotions away as if this is what normal human beings do. But Sherlock can see a sliver of his desperation. Sherlock can see how much John wants Sherlock to understand.

It's always been this way. The man wants to know that Sherlock is human. He says it's the public that needs that reassurance, he says it's just the blog. But that's a stretch of the truth. He's never lied about it, he's just hid it well. John Watson wants Sherlock to value sentiment.

And why is he hiding it? That's obvious too, now. He's afraid of being hurt.

And as John wanders between metaphors and half-sketched anecdotes for a minute or two, Sherlock thinks about how he saw it. It meaning...love. He doesn't care if he's wrong, or that he hasn't had that much proper experience in emotions. He felt that unbridled laser of... _something_ , connecting the two of them that morning in the hotel room. Whatever that was, he wants more. He may not know sentiment, but perhaps he knows John. Or he _can_ know John.

_I've no patience for any more dithering. I need to do something. I need to stop thinking._

Because it's the thinking too much that got them into this mess, where John prevaricates and Sherlock swings slightly on his feet as if drunk. And yet the moment stretches on. Sherlock is unable to move or speak or bloody blink. His nervous system is overloading with the importance of this moment.

Because this moment _is_ important, damnit. And yet even as this tension builds within Sherlock, even as he sees his future cleanly cloven in two, John is still ignorant. Ignorant not of what they have, but of how Sherlock feels about it. That Sherlock feels, too.

And Sherlock is the only one who can change that.

_Stupid._

[It is so obvious now, so obvious that Sherlock is the one who holds all the potential in his loosely-clenched palm. He's scared. Of the kinetics.]

It happens very quickly, when it does eventually happen. One moment John is slowly rolling to a stop in his monologue as he runs out of empty platitudes. The shining moment of quiet in between the pair spins out like a gossamer fishing line. The next Sherlock watches himself as he winds closer to John, placing his feet precisely upon the wooden floor. It feels like he’s walking while leaning at a fifty-degree angle to the ground. As if moving through a great noiseless wind.

“I—,” Sherlock manages to say, and his fingers reach weirdly for John’s shoulders or neck or hair to hold on to. John makes some sort of wordless noise of concern and opens his mouth to speak, but it’s too late for dialogue, too late for anything.

_His jumper. My hands. My face is very close to his. This is better. I can see now. I can see it all. I should say something. John’s confused. Every single muscle in my upper body hurts. Say it._

There’s something like a soundless crescendo in the very core of Sherlock’s being, and then it’s over. He’s said it perfectly, without inflection, without a hint of sentiment, without an appearance of tone or resentment or reciprocation or anything at all. It drifts out like a feather in the vacuum of space.

"Are you in love with me?"


	8. All Backwards

“Are you in love with me?” Sherlock says the words without inflection, and the sentence lies there, stark. Unashamed. Naked.

John stares. He’s not ready for this, but now that the moment is here it feels like he’s been attacked. Sherlock’s eyes are flickering back and forth like small sentient beings; he seems attentive but unemotional. Like this is an experiment. Like John is lost and these are his eyes, right there, and here is his mouth, and there’s absolutely no way for an ordinary human being to fathom what is going on behind this man’s skull.

John closes his eyes because Sherlock looks flawless, and love is a very flawed thing.

He looks utterly inert. Unable to react, or feel, or even care. Inanimate. It’s a very close thing, for a second. John knows how he wants to react. He weighs it in his palm like a stone, this knee-jerk reaction. He wants to bluster in fury, blinking fast enough that his eyes can hide. Fluttering them as he tilts his head and poses a bitter, lacy counter question. “I don’t know, Sherlock, why don’t you _deduce it?_ ” 

He could say that. He really could. And he wants to. Because…it all makes no sense. Sherlock’s got it all wrong. You don’t start with this, the complex stuff. You don’t start with that question. Who could love a thing that can’t be moved?

But all that anger and bluster would be out of sync with what John feels to be true. He stops himself, and thinks. [ _"Just think. THINK!"_ ] He thinks of the past couple of weeks. He thinks of how well he can hide his emotions around Sherlock, a man whose perception is supposedly perfect. A man whose career profession is detection--and yet he can’t tell how John feels. The desperation on Sherlock’s face in the hotel room. Discussing emotions. Murder.

This is the best proof John will ever have that Sherlock Holmes is a goddamn liar.

“I think you’ve got this whole emotions thing a bit backwards,” he says softly, as to a spooked cat or bird. He takes an even step forward as Sherlock falters a small step back. 

“Backwards?” Sherlock breathes.

“I’ll show you how to start,” John says, and he closes the gap and presses into Sherlock’s personal space and lifts his chin up as if he’s challenging the man. Except he’s not, their lips are too close and loose for that. John stares at Sherlock’s mouth and doesn’t let himself guess again. Sherlock has let his jaw go slack. Fast short breaths. John goes up on his toes the littlest bit to hint at what he wants. He is ever so close now, there is no way to brush this off, but he’d prefer Sherlock closed the tiniest gap that still exist between them. 

And then it’s closed and they are close and John is slowly, luxuriously moving his mouth slightly against Sherlock’s as he rests his hand oddly on his shoulder. The shirt is soft, and Sherlock is soft, of course, and John rests back on his feet but Sherlock follows. It’s so warm and nice. John kisses him three times, pausing a bit in between, and his eyes are closed. When he opens them at the end of the last kiss, all he can see are pale eyelids. 

John leans back, but stays close. He lets Sherlock sit and breathe. He can feel the momentum they’ve built up, they’re just about soaring. Sherlock opens his eyes.

“I don’t quite…” begins Sherlock, but his eyes are clearly on John’s mouth, and it’s all John can do not to have his way with him, right here, but he stops again. And thinks. And speaks.

“Would you like to go out for dinner?”

“Dinner?” Sherlock is puzzled. Of course.

“It’s what you do when you date someone,” John explains.

“Oh,” Sherlock responds, and the way his misunderstanding is hidden in plain sight in the shape of his lips just _kills_ John, it really does. “I would much rather. That is. I think for now. I would just like to. Lie down with you.”

John is about to laugh in surprise at how forward Sherlock is, in an oddly chaste way, when Sherlock realizes what he’s said and somehow actually _blushes_. 

“No! NO! That is to say. I.” Sherlock straightens himself and looks above John’s right shoulder at the wallpaper. “I very much liked sleeping with you in the hotel bed. When we slept together in the same bed.” John is laughing and shaking his head now, and Sherlock is clearly embarrassed. “Can you please stop laughing at me and go lie down in my bed?” he requests, almost primly, and John is laughing even harder. He pulls Sherlock’s gaze toward him with a finger on his jaw, forcing eye contact.

“Of course,” he says, and he pulls Sherlock with him as he walks. “You’re amazing, you really are.”

“Am I,” Sherlock whispers. It’s not a question.

“Amazing,” repeats John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! This was my first ever finished piece, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out. Thank you for reading. You're amazing.


End file.
